


Lay Me Down To Sleep

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Consent Issues, Conversations, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley makes an awkward confession, and isn't expecting Aziraphale's gentle encouragement.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 579
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Lay Me Down To Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Consent issues due to Crowley fantasising about Aziraphale having sex with him while he's sleeping.

Crowley only means to close his eyes for a second, to take a moment to enjoy the echoes of orgasm still rippling through him. But the next thing he knows he's in a slightly different position, curled into Aziraphale's body, that familiar pillow of softness and warmth now under the side of his face and the lazy drape of his arm. He knows he's been asleep for a while because the angel is reclining comfortably and now has a book held in his lap. He's turning pages expertly with his thumb since the other hand is currently spread indulgently on Crowley's back, the fingers drifting absently on his skin.

"Aziraphale?" he murmurs.

Aziraphale tips his head down to look at him, smiles as if he'd been waiting quietly this whole time for Crowley to wake up.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep, sorry." He forces the apology out, because he feels like one is definitely owed. He's fairly sure they'd been in the middle of something, or that they hadn't completely finished what they were doing at least. It seems so disappointingly human of him to fall asleep straight after sex. He should be better than that, and he briefly debates whether to be furious with himself for it, but it's almost impossible when Aziraphale is looking so pleased about being slept on. 

The heavy book shuts gently, and the angel lays it down on the bedside table without looking.

"Nonsense." The hand on his back gently pulls him in until it can curl around him, a delicious squeeze which does complicated things to the part of him that's a snake. "It's been perfectly lovely having you sleeping against me, and I'm not going to pretend the suggestion that I exhausted you utterly isn't just a touch flattering." There's a proud little smile to go with the words that crushes Crowley's instinctive need to argue.

"Well you were very demanding," he agrees instead, which isn't a lie. There are a lot of things he's still learning about having sex with an angel, or more specifically _his_ angel. How he's curious and joyful and delighted by everything they do together. The unexpected strength and stamina and _enthusiasm_. Not that Crowley has a single complaint about any of it, no he's been enjoying it all immensely. He's been more than happy to let Aziraphale pin him, or bend him, or lift him - or put his wide, warm hands on Crowley's hips and encourage him to be unexpectedly rough whenever he likes. It hasn't even been a year and Crowley is already utterly ruined for anyone else. Though that's something he has no complaints about. "And also insssatiable."

Aziraphale hums amusement at what he clearly decides is a compliment, hand sliding warmly up to Crowley's neck, drifting and then squeezing the relaxed muscle in a way that makes Crowley want to go boneless and let his limbs melt away. He's starting to suspect the angel is doing it on purpose, that he can feel how much the serpent in him likes it.

"You do rather bring that out of me. Though you really shouldn't apologise, you're beautiful when you sleep, quite distractingly lovely. Honestly, I had a hard time keeping my hands to myself."

Crowley can't help but swallow hard at the words, skin suddenly too tight, soft cock twitching in interest where it's pressed to the bed. It's just a figure of speech, Aziraphale can't possibly know that he'd just casually suggested something Crowley had been fantasising about on and off for over a century.

"You really don't have to." He tries for an air of teasing amusement rather than the quiet, desperate honesty that wants to thread through the words.

Crowley remembers exactly how the whole thing had started for him. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa in the backroom some time in the late nineteenth century after a few too many bottles of wine, either forgetting or stubbornly refusing to sober up. He'd woken very early in the morning, still mostly drunk, with his belt and trousers open, his shirt dragged up out of his waistband and his underwear askew, feeling bruised and achy. For a few long minutes he'd been horribly confused, since the only people in the shop that night had been him and Aziraphale.

It had come to him, suddenly and in beautiful clarity. The image of Aziraphale, drunk and lonely, desperate for something that neither of them could have. He'd obviously come across Crowley asleep on the sofa, vulnerable and trusting. The angel had been unable to resist the opportunity for stolen intimacy, had pushed his clothing open to expose his naked body, perhaps even leaning over him to kiss his sleeping mouth while he remained unaware.

Crowley had been almost immediately painfully hard at the thought, a throb of desperate lust that had left him cursing and guiltily shoving a hand inside his open trousers.

The wicked, greedy angel could have gone even further than that without his knowledge, could have stripped his trousers from him and spread his long legs, leaving him obscenely exposed and vulnerable. Aziraphale would have used the opportunity to take advantage of him, to play at his relaxed, untouched hole, his hastily slicked fingers pressing into him while he slept on, mouthing at his gently rising cock. Or perhaps even spreading his buttocks and pushing his own impatiently oiled cock into the hole he'd left wet and stretched open, spearing deeply into Crowley's sleeping form with heavy, guilty thrusts -

Oh, Aziraphale would have never done such a terrible thing to him. Crowley had known that even half drunk and sleep-confused. But the _thought_ of it had been enough to leave him pushing up into his own clumsy hand, one foot braced on the sofa's arm, hips working roughly as he fucked the painfully tight squeeze of his own fingers. Imagining the angel taking terrible, selfish advantage of his helpless body, until Crowley had been a breathless slippery mess across the sofa cushions, spreading stains on his shirt tails, and his dishevelled trousers.

Crowley had remembered eventually that he'd visited the toilet earlier in the night, bashing into a door handle and forgetting to put his clothes to rights. But still, the memory - and more importantly the fantasy - had persisted.

"Don't have to what?" Aziraphale asks curiously. Because he's had six thousand years to spot all the ways that Crowley hides things. Crowley would hate that more if it didn't feel like proof that for as long as he'd been watching Aziraphale, the angel had been watching him back.

"Keep your hands to yourself," he says quietly, face turned just a little deeper into the angel's soft stomach, feigning laziness rather than an unwillingness to look at him. He's afraid it will all seem too fucking obvious by far if Aziraphale can see his eyes. "You could amuse yourself while I was asleep, if you wanted to."

His brain tells him to shut up, but his mouth has spilled half the secret already.

Aziraphale's hand slides up into his hair, to gently pull through it in a way Crowley has always found relaxing, though the angel doesn't say anything for a long moment. Crowley thinks the 'amuse yourself with me,' is a given there. He convinces himself there's no judgment in the movement of fingers, there's no frown of unhappiness at the suggestion looming over his head. But it's so quiet, no help from the angel, and he waits anxiously in the sheets.

"Is that something you would like?" Aziraphale sounds curious rather than disturbed or disgusted. Which is better than Crowley was expecting, if he's being honest.

"Just something I think about sometimes," he mutters. Which is close enough to a lie that he almost feels bad about it, but they haven't really gotten to this point yet. They've been taking things slowly. They have so much time after all, and there are so many ways to be together, so many intimacies to explore. Crowley hadn't wanted to shove them into the 'confessing their fantasies to each other,' part of their relationship yet. Especially the ones of a vaguely transgressive nature.

But Aziraphale seems to realise that this is something that requires more than interested noises, because he chooses this particular moment to pay attention. Crowley loves him, he does, unconditionally, and he'd give Aziraphale anything he wanted if he asked. But there are still parts of himself he's wary about sharing, for fear of judgement, or disappointment.

Aziraphale's hand has gone still in his hair, but he makes a curious noise.

"And you'd feel comfortable with that, with letting me touch you while you were sleeping?" There's a certain amount of emphasis on the words. Crowley suspects Aziraphale is considering how heavily Crowley sleeps, how difficult he is to wake up sometimes. How much Aziraphale could do to him without him being aware of it. Which Crowley can't help but think is kind of the point. The fact that Aziraphale could do anything to him and he wouldn't wake. That he wouldn't know until long afterwards.

"Can't think of a situation where I wouldn't feel comfortable with you touching me," Crowley admits, rather than have any sort of reaction to the gently suggestive nudge somewhere he desperately wants it.

Aziraphale's hand is moving again, manicured nails gently scratching at his scalp. "What about kissing, would you like to be kissed while you slept?"

Would he like Aziraphale braced over him in the dark, while his barely open mouth huffed sleeping breaths, the slow sink of the angel's weight, the press of lips that stop the air in his throat?

"Yeah." He makes his voice behave, refuses to let it crack at the admission. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"And more intimate touches," Aziraphale continues. "If I were to - er."

Crowley makes a warning noise against the gentle give of the angel's stomach. "If you use the phrase 'manually stimulated' again, I'm throwing your book in the fish tank."

"You don't have a fish tank," Aziraphale points out, though he's not even pretending that Crowley is serious about damaging any of his books. It's a hollow threat and they both know it.

"I could have a fish tank, if I wanted to."

Aziraphale smiles, almost against his will, though he so obviously knows it's a distraction. Crowley knows it too. They're having this conversation now, he doesn't think he could kill it if he tried, the least he can do is have it like a six thousand-year old being.

"I'm asking if you'd be comfortable if I brought you to orgasm while you slept?"

Crowley manages not to press his hips down into the bed when Aziraphale offers that so easily. He leaves his body loose in the sheets, rather than make a joke, or deflect, or distract the angel with kisses and a hand tucked between his warm thighs. 

"More than comfortable," he forces out instead. "And I want -" Crowley's mouth briefly tightens at the thought of voicing this all out loud, but he makes himself continue "I want you to come too, I want you to enjoy it, that's part of it."

Aziraphale's quiet noise of surprise is unexpected. It makes Crowley look up at him, even though he's aware that yellow has spread to fill his eyes. Which has always been rather more telling than he'd like.

The angel is frowning, but it's gentle, and the soft pad of his thumb strokes the snake tattoo, sending long pleasant shivers down Crowley's spine. There's reassurance in it, an affection they were so long denied.

"I'll admit, I'm having trouble seeing what you're getting out of this." 

He's not sure he can explain it, the things you want don't always make sense, sometimes it's just the idea of it, an image you have in your head that makes you twist and ache with desperate desire. Nothing you could name, or grasp hold of and say 'here, this is why I want it, this is why it works for me.'

"I don't know," he hedges, shrugs lazily and awkwardly where he's still sprawled against Aziraphale's hip and side. "Maybe it's about knowing that you wanted me enough that you couldn't help yourself, that you didn't want to wait, that you'd just use me when the mood took you." As if that was what Crowley was there for. 

"You wish to be an object for my pleasure?" Aziraphale says quietly, and this time it is a question.

Crowley's stomach tightens, and he's almost fully hard now, forced to talk about this as if it's a thing that might actually happen. It's an aching throb of distraction beneath him.

"Yesss - I mean, maybe, something about the transgressive nature of it too. The vaguely scandalous idea of you doing things to me while I'm sleeping, making a mess of me while I'm completely unaware of it, while I'm -" _vulnerable_ , Crowley thinks, but he can't quite say that part. Something about trusting Aziraphale with his soft, sleeping body. The idea that the angel might take full advantage of it, might treat him like a thing, sate himself roughly in scandalous ways. The fact that that's exactly what Crowley wants him to do.

Aziraphale hums, as if he's considering it.

"Does this assume sex acts as well?"

"Yesss," Crowley says, suddenly breathless and trying his best to hide it. He hadn't thought through what bringing up the suggestion would actually mean. Listening to the angel's soft questions press and push and stroke his carefully hidden fantasies is almost unbearable.

"Vaginal and anal penetration?" Aziraphale adds cautiously.

Crowley swallows thickly and doesn't let himself picture it. Doesn't let himself think of the soft, curious way the angel offers it.

"Yes to both," he says quickly, voice a touch too thick to be casual.

"Oral penetration?" Aziraphale says, but this one more uncertainly, probably because he knows how much Crowley enjoys it and assumes he'd rather be awake for it. But, oh, just the fucking thought of it is enough to squeeze all the breath from his lungs.

"Yes, it's not like I can suffocate," Crowley answers. But then he thinks about it for a second, about what it would mean, how his body would react to it. "Though, ah, don't be surprised if I try to pull your cock down my throat, I can mostly control the reflex when I'm awake, but asleep all bets are off."

"Oh," Aziraphale says quietly. In a tone that doesn't feel warned so much as intrigued.

"You like that idea," Crowley realises, surprised enough to tip his head up and look at him again. Because he hadn't expected the angel to want any part of it. He can't help but picture it - picture Aziraphale carefully dragging a pillow out of the way, bringing his hips in close to Crowley's sleeping face, tilting his head, easing his jaw open and _enjoying him._

He squirms against the sheets, more than enough for Aziraphale to catch the movement, exhale a shaken breath and then clear his throat sharply. As if he's loath to let them both get distracted before they've finished what he clearly thinks has turned into an 'important conversation.' Crowley hates that it has, but he knows that wriggling out of it has become impossible.

"Why don't you explain it to me?" Aziraphale asks. "Tell me exactly what you want."

Tell Aziraphale what he wants? He makes it sound so easy, as if they're not discussing something that might be considered only questionably consensual. Something he's not sure he ever intended to discuss with the angel at all. He makes an indecisive noise against the warmth of Aziraphale's skin. He's not sure he can put it into words - or maybe it's the thought that sharing what's barely more than a checklist of wants and desires will disappoint Aziraphale somehow. Maybe the angel wants it to have meaning. Maybe Crowley wants it to have meaning. He doesn't fucking know.

Aziraphale strokes his hair, and Crowley shuts his eyes and makes a reluctant noise of surrender.

"It started when - when I woke up once in the backroom, dunno, late nineteenth century or thereabouts. We'd just started talking again, and we'd been drinking all night. I didn't want to sober up, so I was still fairly drunk when I went to sleep. I woke up early and my belt and trousers were undone, pushed all the way open, shirt dragged out of them, underwear half down. I couldn't help but think it might have been you, that you'd found me sleeping and -" Crowley stops, because the memory is still surprisingly vivid. 

"Had my way with you?" Aziraphale finishes quietly, there's a slight smile on his face - he doesn't seem offended by the suggestion. It encourages Crowley to go on.

"Yeah," he says thickly. "Had your way with me while I was asleep, and I liked it. I liked the idea of it. I thought about it so many times, couldn't stop thinking about it." If the angel only knew how many times he'd stretched out on his bed in the dark, clothes pulled into disorder, or stripped free completely, imagining the stroke of hands, the spread of his thighs, the push of fingers - all while he slept on.

Aziraphale's fingers drag through his hair for a moment. "What do you want, Crowley? What do you hope will happen when you go to sleep?"

What does he hope will happen? Crowley takes a breath, because he can see it, he can see it so clearly. But it's greedy and obscene, it's not gentle, it's not _nice_ , and he doesn't want the angel to judge him for it.

"Tell me," Aziraphale urges quietly. 

And that drags it out of him like a breath.

"I want to wake up naked," Crowley says, low in his throat like he can grate it out in pieces. "When I went to sleep wearing clothes. I want to wake up in the same position you fucked me in, exactly the way you left me, spread out and exposed, dripping and messy with it. On display like you'd enjoyed the sight of it afterwards. I want you to be selfish with me. I want to still feel bruised from your hands and your cock. I want my arse, or my cunt, or my throat - or all three - to be wet and open, and sore enough to ache. So I know you've used me all night, that you didn't stop, that you've been inside me over and over again. I want to be marked and stinging and streaked with your come. I want to know you fucked me until you couldn't any more. I want you to have used me so well and for so long that I can still feel you inside." 

Crowley stops, draws in a breath, he's not sure if he's gone too far, if he's said too much, taken it somewhere that Aziraphale didn't want to go. Because maybe the angel was just curious about some of the fantasies Crowley's had about him. Maybe he never intended to agree to anything. He thinks about apologising, but his throat's too dry and tight for any more words. He feels like a snake thrashing in the sun, vulnerable underbelly exposed. He hates it.

The angel's hand spreads on his upper back, sliding gently back and forth across the middle of his spine, where his wings would meet if he drew them out in this plane. A soothing gesture for the tension that has drawn tight in him.

"And how am I to know when you - when you'd like me to touch you?" Aziraphale asks quietly. "If you're not awake to give consent."

Crowley stares at the angel's soft stomach, the wide expanse of his thigh covered in nothing but a sheet. Because he'd spent so long with that particular fantasy locked securely away, a secret thing he'd never expected to bring out, let alone ever have made into any sort of a reality. For a moment Crowley doesn't think he's heard the question right. 

Aziraphale waits patiently while he swallows and lets himself really think about it. About the possibility of going to sleep and actually getting everything he wants - of waking to find the angel has had his fill of him. The evidence all over him, inside him. Of taking the guilty thing inside his head and making it real.

Eventually, his own arm gives him the answer.

"If you find me in bed and I'm not wearing my watch you can consider that consent," he says, tilting his wrist so Aziraphale can see it. It's a big lump of a thing, impossible to miss. He rarely takes it off now.

Aziraphale nods agreement.

It suddenly feels like too much, like Crowley has asked Aziraphale to do something that he's not going to be comfortable with. The suggestion that Crowley isn't in a position to consent while it's happening gives the whole thing a vaguely seedy air. Not exactly an angelic sort of thing, is it? The thought that Aziraphale might feel compelled to go through with it to make Crowley happy.

He doesn't want that.

"We can start slow," he says hurriedly. "You don't have to do anything but kiss me, to see if you like it, to see if it bothers you. You don't have to do anything for me, you know that - if you're uncomfortable, or you don't like it, you can stop. Or you can wake me. I don't want you to feel like you have to do anything. You won't disappoint me if you don't want to, angel. You know that."

Aziraphale shushes him, the arm at his back curling and pulling, easing him up the bed to join him. The sheet tangles between them when they end up lying together. Aziraphale kisses him, crushing his murmured protest quiet. The hold he has on Crowley is tight enough for his spine to go liquid, for him to tip his head down and hiss annoyance at Aziraphale purposefully subduing him with affection.

"I think that I would like to give you what you want," Aziraphale tells him. "Though it might be helpful if you make a list for me, of things that you would like me to do and things that you don't enjoy. So there are no misunderstandings."

"Ugh, I should have known you'd want something to read," Crowley complains, and then immediately kisses the angel's mouth before he can defend his request. "Fine, but in exchange you have to tell me something you'd like. Something I can do for you, something scandalous."

He's half expecting a protest, an insistence that Aziraphale has never had a single scandalous thought about him, which will be a ridiculous lie that Crowley will call him out on immediately. But instead the angel seems to think about it, before giving a cautious nod.

"That seems perfectly fair."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Lay Me Down To Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864041) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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